J. Jones - The Third Place

A tall, hawk-nosed man with a scar on his face was not so stupid, as he dropped Klavan with a shot to the left bicep. The bullet burned, but he could still take a shot with his right hand, down on one knee. And then the soldiers arrived, running in between him and the tall man. They saw the gun in the tall man’s hand first and quickly demanded he drop his weapon. Klavan wisely holstered his own and stood up, attempting once again to blend into the crowd. His upper arm was bleeding, but it was not immediately noticeable on the black serge of his priest’s coat.

By now the military men had surrounded the tall man and taken his gun even as their prisoner pleaded, ‘He’s getting away, damn you. The priest. In disguise.’

Klavan forced himself to walk unhurriedly past the clump of military men, with more rushing into the courtyard as he passed out under the stone archway. He said to one of these oncoming soldiers, ‘The tall one. He attempted to kill our beloved emperor.’

‘Bastard,’ the man cried out as his boots clattered on the cobbles.

By the time Werthen and Gross had raced down the wide, curving flight of marble stairs to the courtyard below, all they could see was a crowd of soldiers surrounding a man near the entrance. They hurried over and as they approached, Werthen caught sight of Duncan’s head above the others, his hands raised high.

‘Try to kill the emperor, you son of a bitch,’ one of the soldiers was saying as Gross and Werthen waded into their midst.

‘This is not the one, you fools,’ Gross said in a fury. ‘He was disguised as a priest.’

‘Mother of God,’ the soldier who had taken Klavan’s lie to heart said.

‘I tried to tell them, Doktor Gross,’ Duncan said, feeling safe now to lower his hands. ‘He shot Hartmann.’ Duncan nodded his head to a body lying in a pool of blood ten feet away.

Werthen did not bother to listen to more but dashed out under the archway to the courtyard into the Hofburg grounds. But he could not see Klavan and there were numerous directions of escape from here.

Back in the courtyard the focus was now on the body of Hartmann, a lieutenant in Franz Ferdinand’s bodyguard detail.

‘He was just a kid,’ Duncan said, kneeling down by the body. ‘Engaged last month.’

He looked up at Gross and Werthen as he spoke next. ‘But I wounded him. Left arm. He’ll need a doctor.’

‘This is inexcusable,’ Prince Montenuovo declared. ‘How could you let this happen?’

‘If you will remember rightly,’ Gross said, ‘it didn’t happen. Advokat Werthen here saved the day.’

‘There should have been nothing to save. Why did you not know of Frau Huber beforehand?’

They sat in his office quarreling when all Werthen wished to do was track down Klavan and kill him. That would be justice.

‘I admit to failure there,’ Gross said with a voice that sounded for once genuinely penitent. ‘I should have inquired personally at the perfumery. Had I done so, I would have ascertained that two bottles of cologne had been purchased.’

‘But if it had not been for your own Herr Plauder none of this would have happened,’ Werthen said, coming to the defense of his colleague. For it had quickly been determined that the officious Plauder – the assistant at Herr Czerny’s office who had delayed his and Berthe’s interview with his boss – had been the one to allow the list of elderly participants to be assayed yesterday.

‘But he said he was a priest,’ was the unfortunate Plauder’s excuse. ‘He was dressed like one.’ Klavan had told Plauder a tale of needing to confirm the names for the archbishop in order to get a look at the list of participants.

‘Do not be concerned with Herr Plauder. I am sure he shall find his new posting in Galicia more in tune with his capabilities.’

‘None of this is getting us closer to Klavan,’ Werthen finally said in exasperation.

‘By now he has skulked off into the underground world of Vienna,’ Gross said.

‘Dumbroski?’ Werthen was sure of a connection there, despite their embarrassment. But would he dare to return to her place?

‘Stay away from the princess,’ Montenuovo ordered.

‘She’s no more a princess than …’ But Werthen stopped himself before making the obvious comparison with Montenuovo, whose pedigree was the result of a tryst between the dashing Adam Albert, Count von Neipperg, and the Empress Marie Louise, wife of Napoleon, which produced his father, born illegitimately. Hardly a princely background.

‘As I was saying, Klavan has skulked off to the shadows for now, but what of the poor granddaughter of Frau Huber?’

For they had learned that Klavan had kidnapped the girl, threatening to kill her if the old lady did not follow his orders and spray the emperor with the cologne. A ‘new baptism’ he had called it, according to Frau Huber. The old lady had no idea of the contents but was so frantic she would do anything to save her beloved Gitty – Brigitte – who had just turned thirteen.

‘That is a police matter,’ Montenuovo said, as if the life of a young girl were neither here nor there. ‘Your mission now is to track down this mad man before he finally succeeds in killing the emperor.’ He shot an evil look at both of them. ‘And let me tell you that your duplicity is not appreciated.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Gross spluttered, and for a moment Werthen thought he might actually take a swing at the pompous little ass.

‘You know exactly what I mean. Bringing that riff-raff from the Lower Belvedere here as your assistants. Tell the archduke that the Hofburg has no use for his dubious gestures.’

Werthen was about to argue and then thought better of it. It would be a waste of time. The feud between Montenuovo and Franz Ferdinand would only end with the death of one of them.

‘Gross, we should get word to hospitals and clinics about a priest with a gunshot wound.’

But the criminologist was too busy glaring at Prince Montenuovo to hear him.

Werthen tapped his arm. ‘Gross. We need to get underway. We cannot let Klavan get an advantage again. Now is our time to press on, to ferret him out.’

Finally Gross turned his attention to his friend. ‘Very well, Werthen. You are right. Our business is elsewhere.’

He cleaned the wound back in his hotel room. No one had seen him come in. He had waited across the street for the doorman to leave the entrance for a moment before he made his way up to his room.

Klavan was lucky in one regard: it was only a flesh wound. He washed it with carbolic soap, wincing at the pain and watching as the blood turned the basin of water rose pink.

Lucky. That was worth a laugh, but he did not have the energy even to so much as smile at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

He tore one of his new shirts into strips and wound several of them tightly around his arm one-handed, using his cheek to help get the knot tight. The bleeding would soon stop, but not the pain. He would not have to risk a doctor, and the pain would keep him on edge.

He took stock of the situation. He could not stay here. Too risky for obvious reasons. Neither could he go to Lisette; they would surely look for him there.

Klavan gave no thought to simply leaving Vienna and saving himself. Not a hesitation. No. He had another plan now. Perhaps it was always there in the back of his mind. It would take some planning, but not much, and it would be a fitting end to Werthen and Gross.

He would need to change his appearance one more time. He had not yet used the identity papers of Herr Gregor Tollinger of Bolzano that he had collected from the safe deposit box. His priest’s collar had been sufficient identification to check into the hotel; that and he had paid in advance. And he still had plenty of cash left from that same box.